


Showers and Serenades

by ratpoet



Series: In Any Universe, I'd Find You [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, M/M, cuteness, two idiots with shitty taste in music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 14:00:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3980719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratpoet/pseuds/ratpoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based off of this: "So we’ve never met but our showers are on opposite sides of the same apartment wall so sometimes we’re showering at the same time and we sing duets” AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Showers and Serenades

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of [this post](http://not-just-chaos.tumblr.com/post/116830836634/awful-aus-so-weve-never-met-but-our-showers) on tumblr.
> 
> Also, some of the songs I've mentioned here are actually good, but that doesn't mean Mickey will like them. I don't mean any offence to your taste in music :)

Ian's dead tired, his feet sore and his back aching, the result of one more gruelling day at work and the long ride back in the subway. Normally, Ian doesn't mind- the tiredness helps keep his mind from over thinking. But today, he overslept, ran out of the door without breakfast to make up for the lost time, and then fucked up half the orders at the café he's been working at for the last eight months. And to top all that, he missed his usual train back home, so he had to wait for half an hour at the subway station, with just one hippie guitarist for company. 

So after the day Ian's had, all he wants to do is get into the shower and wash the soreness of his limbs away. He's practically out of his clothes by the time he enters his crappy apartment with its cracked-plaster ceiling and worn-out wooden flooring, and the paper thin walls that ensure that Ian can hear everything his neighbour does in vivid detail.

Ian enters the bathroom and turns the faucet on, nearly shrieking when the cold water hits him in the face. He can hear the sound of water hitting the floor from the bathroom right next to his, and the grunt of the guy who lives there at Ian's shriek. It's comforting, in a way- by this point, Ian's pretty much grown used to the sound of another shower in the background each time he enters his own shower, and the sounds his mystery neighbour makes sometimes, the sighs and grunts Ian hears when the water hits his neighbour's skin. 

Ian hasn't even seen the guy in all the time he's been here, holed up in this shitty apartment because he doesn't have the money to get a better place, but Ian's already familiar with his neighbour's night schedule- long shower followed by the sound of toothbrush on teeth, and then a few hours of crappy late night television, or sometimes porn. Other times, the guy brings somebody home, and Ian can hear them fucking late into the night, and the sound he makes just as he's about to come, the slight whimper that escapes his throat in warning. Ian can even hear the hook-ups leave, right after the fucking ends- the dismissive bark of his neighbour, the silence, or sometimes, the hopeful promises of his hook-ups, the turn of a key, and his neighbour's sigh.

The walls really are paper thin.

Ian sighs in contentment as the hot water hits his skin, rubbing the knot of tension out of his coiled muscles. He submerges his head under the steady stream of water, drowning out the sounds of his neighbour rubbing soap on his skin for a moment, and then moves his head out of the way of the downpour. He rubs shampoo into his hair, gently massaging his scalp, and smiles to himself. He can already feel the tiredness draining out of his skin, collecting in a pool beside his feet with the dirty water coursing down his skin. Ian doesn't even realize when he starts humming softly, his voice mingling with the sound of the stream of water.

"Are you fucking kidding me?!" a rough voice barks out from right beside Ian, nearly startling him out of his skin. All these months of communal showers and growing familiar with each others’ schedules, and they hadn’t even exchanged a single word until that moment. It’s kind of sad that these are the first words his neighbour says to Ian.

Ian’s first thought is that there’s a serial killer hiding behind him, which is why he turns around in a split second, ready to kick the shit out of whoever’s standing there. He only ends up feeling stupid as fuck.

Ian’s second thought is that nobody should be allowed to have a voice that sexy. It’s just unfair for the sound of that rough voice to make Ian want to jerk himself off right then and there, or better yet, jerk off his neighbour right then and there, drawing moans and raspy breaths out of his throat.

Ian’s third thought is that the owner of the voice is probably expecting a reply.

“What?” Ian asks sheepishly. He doesn’t even know what he’s done to offend his neighbour.

“You can't seriously be singing  _Let it Go_ ” his neighbour spits out the name of the song like poison on his tongue.

“It’s catchy,” Ian protests. He hadn’t even realized that that was the song he’d been humming, and apparently, he hadn’t been humming as softly as he’d thought.

“It’s annoying as fuck,” his neighbour says, pissed.

“This is like the twentieth I'm being forced to listen to it today,” he adds.

“Who the fuck is forcing you?” Ian asks, getting pissed. His neighbour may have a voice that made Ian want to compose sonnets for its timbre alone, but all the frustration of the day’s slowly coming back to him, and it’s _his_ bathroom. He should be allowed to sing shitty songs if he likes.

“Do you seriously expect me to leave the shower midway because you want to sing a fucking stupid song?” the voice snaps.

Ian ignores him, and starts singing again instead. His neighbour exhales sharply, and Ian can tell he’s getting pissed off. Ian just grins and starts singing harder.

The problem arises when Ian’s finished with the first chorus. Because he doesn’t know the rest of the lyrics. And just as he pauses for breath, ready to repeat the chorus again, his neighbour’s voice chimes in instead.

 _‘I aint fucking with you, you lil stupid ass bitch, I ain't fuckin' with you, you lil, you lil dumb ass bitch, I ain't fuckin' with you’_  he raps out quickly, giving Ian no space between the words to interrupt him. Ian’s actually impressed by his neighbour’s rapping skills, not to mention the sound of his voice, rough and loud and sensual.  

 _‘I got a million trillion things I'd rather fuckin' do than to be fuckin' with you, lil stupid ass,”_ the man pauses for breath.

 _‘I don't give a fuck, I don’t give a fuck, I don't give a, I don’t give a fuck,  I don't give a fuck about you,'_ his neighbour finishes. Ian can only imagine his lips curling into a smirk- the lips that Ian hasn’t yet seen, but he can imagine them, can imagine them opening slightly as his neighbour’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down, his voice cascading into Ian’s ears.

“What, you lost your voice or some shit?” his neighbour taunts him. Ian can hear the smile in his voice.

“That an actual song?” Ian asks, instead of answering the taunt.

“Of course it is, bitch. You think I just made it up on the spot?” his neighbour snarls. Ian wonders what he’d sound like if he wasn’t always sneering or snarling. Then again, knowing the answer to that probably wouldn’t be the best thing for Ian’s mental health.

“I just find it hard to believe that someone gave enough of a fuck about not giving a fuck to make a song about it,” Ian answers.

His neighbour snorts. It’s not laughter, Ian knows that, but it’s not a growl either, so.

Ian smiles to himself.

“You were screeching  _let it go_  like a fucking dying whale, so I don’t think you have the right to comment on the stupidity of any song,” his neighbour says.  _Ouch_ , Ian thinks.  _Dying whale_.

Not that he didn’t know about his non-existent singing skills before, and he _has_ been called worse (Lip once said he’d rather endure a Nickel back concert than listen to Ian's singing) but Ian’s never been insulted by a voice this hot before.

Ian decides the best way to exact revenge on his neighbour for the comment is by bursting into another song.

“ _It's_   _way too soon, I know this isn't love, but I need to tell you something_ ,” Ian begins. He can hear his neighbour drawing a sharp breath, and Ian rushes into the chorus quickly before he can be interrupted again.

‘ _I really really really really really really like you_ ,” Ian sings out, his voice breaking every time he hits a high note. He hears his neighbour snigger for a second, and then the sound cuts off suddenly. Ian smiles to himself, singing out the next phrase even louder.

“ _And I want you, do you want me, do you want me, too?”_  Ian finishes, out of breath already. He really can't sing.

“Why do you even know this song?” his neighbour asks after a moment of silence, the snarl back in his voice, but this time, Ian can hear the laughter bubbling underneath. Ian knows what muffled laughter sounds like.

“My sister likes it,” Ian answers. He doesn’t mention that after being forced to listen to it a million times, he’s secretly started liking it too.

“You’re so lame, you probably like it too,” his neighbour says, amused.

“How do you even know I'm lame?” Ian asks.

“I mean, you don’t even know my name,” Ian says, and then adds “Hey, that rhymed!”

His neighbour’s quiet for a moment. Ian doesn’t have to hear it to know he’s laughing silently.

“Okay, okay, I'm lame,” Ian admits. He may as well. It’s not like he has anything to lose.

“But you still don’t know my name,” Ian adds, seizing the opportunity. He knows putting a name to the other man’s voice won't really do much to help him get his neighbour into his bed, but it’s progress, anyway. After all the times he’s messed up, Ian’s learned to value it.

“Fine, what’s your name?” his neighbour sighs.

“Ian. Ian Gallagher,” Ian says.

“Great,” his neighbour says. The sound of the water from his neighbour’s faucet dripping onto the floor ceases abruptly, and is replaced by the sound of rough cloth rubbing on skin.

“Where are you going?” Ian asks, disappointed.

“What, you want me to keep you company while you shower?” his neighbour replies, the edge entering his voice again.

“I want you to tell me your name,” Ian says. “It’s the polite thing to do, after all.”

His neighbour snorts. Ian has the feeling that ‘polite’ isn’t a word that people normally use to describe him. Ian isn’t surprised.

“Mickey Milkovich,” he says. "Since you asked nicely."

“Mickey,” Ian says softly, tasting the name on his lips, the way it feels in his mouth. He smiles. Somehow he can imagine his neighbour being named Mickey. It just seems right. Fitting.

“Don’t you dare make a fucking Mickey Mouse joke,” Mickey warns him. Ian’s smile widens.

“I'd say I wasn’t going to,” he says, "but then again, I guess you can probably smell a  _rat_  in that statement.”

“Fuck you, man,” Mickey says, snorting.

Ian wants to say ‘ _yes, please’_. He keeps his mouth firmly shut.

“Good night, Ian Gallagher,” Mickey says formally. Ian can practically hear the sardonic grin in his voice.

“Night, Mick,” Ian says, grinning. 

-x-

The next day, when Ian turns on his shower faucet, Mickey’s waiting for him.

"You ever hear a One Direction song?" Ian asks Mickey over the sound of the water.

"No," Mickey replies curtly. He figures he may as well let Ian begin singing. It'll be more fun that way.

"Justin Bieber?" Ian presses.

"Fuck no, man! Do you think I'm a thirteen year old girl?!" Mickey barks out.

"I'm just gonna ignore how rude you were," Ian says, making Mickey smile in spite of himself. 

"You're in for a treat, Mickey," Ian grins.

Mickey screws his eyes shut in anticipation of the coming onslaught.

"Oh, I just wanna show you off to all of my friends, making them drool down their chinny-chin-chins, baby be mine tonight, mine tonight, baby be mine tonight, yeah," Ian pauses to take a breath, and Mickey hovers a finger over the play button of his speakers, steeling himself in anticipation of his own counter attack.

"And if you, you want me too, let's make a mo-" Ian's terrible singing is cut off suddenly by the loud crashing of metal rods against drums. Mickey resolutely plugs his fingers into his ears, moving away from the speakers he's put in one corner of the bathroom.

The sudden sound of an electric guitar joins the clanging of the drums, adding to the cacophony. Mickey can't believe he used to like this shit.

The music cranks up a notch higher as the sound of another guitar joins the melee, the bathroom floor vibrating with the force of the music.

"OH GOD!" Ian screams. “STOP THIS, MICKEY!”

Mickey just grins.

Then the vocals start- a group of nasal voices screaming at the top of their lungs, harsh enough to give anybody a headache. It would be sad if it wasn't physically painful.

"MICKEY, PLEASE!" Ian shouts out. He's getting a migraine now.

"ARE YOU GONNA SING IN THE SHOWER AGAIN?" Mickey shouts at Ian, enjoying himself a bit too much.

For a moment, Ian's silent, but then the lead vocalist's voice peaks, screaming ' _fuuuuuck!_ ' with wild abandon, and Ian decides he can't risk permanent hearing damage for the sake of his pride.

"No!" Ian says, slightly subdued.

"WHAT WAS THAT?" Mickey sings out. 

"No!" Ian tries again.

"I can't hear you!" Mickey says, grinning. 

"I WON'T SING IN THE SHOWER AGAIN!" Ian shouts. "PLEASE, MICK!" 

 Laughing, Mickey gets out of the shower and switches the speakers off. Ian sighs, relieved, in the blissful silence that follows. Mickey's ears are ringing from the loud music, and he's starting to have the beginnings of a headache, but he's smiling.

"You're such an asshole, you know that?" Ian says, still traumatized by the horrifying experience. But he's starting to see the funny side of it. He doesn't like it, but he's starting to see it.

Mickey snorts.

"Yeah, I've been told," he says.

"I hate you so much right now," Ian adds. 

"Let's hope it lasts and you leave me alone," Mickey says, lips stretched wide.

"I can't believe you fucking installed speakers in your bathroom just to torture me," Ian says, shaking his head theatrically. He knows Mickey can't see him, but he does it anyway.

"Must mean you like me a lot," Ian adds. He may be pushing his luck, or he may be seizing an opportunity, and fuck if Ian knows which it is. 

"Yeah, keep dreaming," Mickey answers with a snort. 

-x-

Mickey steps inside his apartment later than usual, tired out from the rough day he's had. He heaves a sigh of relief, just about ready to change and then crash into bed. He's just switching on the lights when his foot catches over something lying on the floor and he hears the unmistakable crunch of glass under his shoes.

 _Fuck_ , Mickey breathes out. What did he break this time?

He switches on the light and gingerly picks up the cracked glass case off the floor. He has no idea what it is, until he catches a glimpse of a face most of America's grown grudgingly familiar with, peering out at him from beneath the cracked cover.

Justin fucking Bieber.

Mickey opens the case incredulously, an eyebrow cocked in disbelief, only to find a gleaming CD inside. A piece of paper flutters out from underneath it when he takes it out. Mickey picks it up off the floor, bringing it close to his eyes to make out the messy, squished handwriting. 

‘ _Missed you in the shower today, and I know you missed my singing, so here's something to cheer you up.’_

Mickey peers even closer, trying to figure out what the weird, grotesque symbol squashed into a corner is, until he realizes that it's Ian's failed attempt at drawing a smiley. 

Mickey shakes his head at the idiot. He has to bite his cheek to keep himself from smiling, and even then, he can't contain it- a bark of laughter escapes nonetheless.

"Did you find my gift?" a voice chirps up from the other room.

"Were you just waiting for me to come in so you could bug me?" Mickey asks. Honestly, this idiot.

"Did you?" Ian asks again. Mickey can just imagine him jumping up and down with excitement.

"Yeah, yeah, now don't piss your pants with glee," Mickey says.

"Are you gonna listen to it?" Ian asks.

"Do you think I like inflicting pain on myself?" Mickey asks him, moving into his bedroom, the case still clutched in his hands. He can hear Ian's footsteps as he moves into his own bedroom to be able to hear Mickey clearly. 

"But I went to the store just to buy this for you!" Ian protests.

"Seriously?! How much free time do you have, Gallagher?" Mickey asks, incredulous.

Ian grumbles something at Mickey. Mickey just rolls his eyes and smiles.

"You're an ungrateful dickhead," Ian says.

"And you're just a dickhead, which isn't much better," Mickey throws back with a smile.

Ian huffs at him, as Mickey climbs into bed and switches off the light.

"What, it's your bedtime already?" Ian asks from the other room.

"Shut up, Gallagher," Mickey mumbles out from under the pillow squashed half on top of his face.

"Sweet dreams, Mickey," Ian sings out at him. 

Mickey doesn't deign that with a reply, only smiles into his pillow silently.

-x-

The next morning, Ian finds a CD lying just outside the door. 

Ian smiles to himself.

It's not much, but it's enough.

-x-

 

"The album you gave me was so good, Mick!" Ian says, when Mickey enters his own bathroom and turns on the jet stream. He starts singing softly, so Mickey has to strain his ears to make out the words-  _'so let's runaway, they will have to find another heart to break, why don't we just run away, never turn around no matter what they say.'_

Mickey snorts. Trust Ian to like shitty songs. Mickey hadn't even listened to it past the first song when some idiot had gifted it to him, thinking he'd like that pop-punk shit. From then on, the album had stayed shoved into one of his cupboards, quietly gathering dust.

"You like that fucking pop punk shit?" Mickey asks Ian.

"Good music is good music," Ian says. Mickey rolls his eyes- Mickey has a feeling he wouldn't really agree with Ian's definition of 'good music'. 

"It's a fucking disgrace to punk, man," Mickey says. 

"But it's good," Ian protests. 

"You ever participate in a debate club?" Mickey asks, smiling.

"Oh, fuck off," Ian says, the sound of his tinkling laughter mixing with the pattering of drops of water hitting the floor.

"What kind of music do  _you_ like?" Ian asks. Mickey has to think for a moment. It's not that he doesn't like music- it's just that everything he used to like- the heavy metal, the classic rock-doesn’t really do it for him anymore.

Mickey doesn't really care much, except. Well. He doesn't even want to think about the kind of music he's slowly started liking these past few months. It's embarrassing, to say the least.

"Nirvana," Mickey blurts out. It's not exactly a lie- there was a time when he'd learn the lyrics to entire albums of theirs in one day. It's been a while since he’s heard their songs, though.

"Figures," Ian says, smiling.

"What, you don't like them?" Mickey asks. 

"I've only heard  _Smells Like Teen Spirit_ ," Ian answers, as if that's any better than not liking them at all.

"Seriously?! Man, you are missing out," Mickey says. A few months ago, and he'd have thrown in a few choice cuss words in there for good effect. Mickey's not sure if he should consider it progress or not.

"Why don't you make me listen to them, then?" Ian asks, smirking.

"I still have the speakers here, if that's what you mean," Mickey says, grinning.

"No! I meant..." Ian trails off and sighs. 

"Never mind," he says, subdued.

Mickey can't stop himself from smiling at Ian and his pathetic attempts at asking him out, if that's even what it was.

Either way, it's better to shut this shit down now, before things veer out of control. 

"Maybe some other day, Gallagher," Mickey says dismissively.

Or attempts to, anyway.

It ends up sounding more like a hesitant promise. But that’s not Mickey’s fault.

-x-

Ian’s already awake when Mickey’s alarms starts blaring. Ian’s ready, biding his time. The only perk of being woken up one hour before his usual time everyday by his neighbour’s noisy alarm is that he now knows Mickey’s schedule by heart.

It certainly aids him in all his stalkerish activities.

Ian hears Mickey’s lock turn, and his quick footsteps as he makes his way downstairs. Ian counts to ten, so that it doesn’t look suspicious when he ‘bumps’ into Mickey outside the main door, and then he exits his room, taking the back stairs down.

He hurries downstairs, taking the stairs two at a time, and finally comes to a stop just outside the back door. He pushes it, trying to get it to open, when he realizes that it’s locked.

 _Fuck_ , Ian thinks.

He looks around for a key hanging around somewhere, only to come up empty.

“Fuck!” Ian says, banging the door in frustration. He can't believe his fucking luck. He kicks the door in anger once, rattling the lock just enough to give Ian hope for a moment, and tries to push the door open once again. It doesn’t budge.

Ian hits his head against the door lightly, more out of a penchant for theatrics than actual anger, and then rattles the door. He pulls it towards himself, and nearly falls on his butt when the door swings open

 _Oh_ , Ian thinks sheepishly.  _The door opens inwards_.

He quickly exits the room, emerging into the white sunlight. It’s way too bright for an early morning. He looks around for Mickey, shielding his eyes against the sun, but there are too many people around, and Mickey may have already left in all the time Ian’s wasted.

A man in a coat hurries past Ian and for a moment Ian’s eyes focus on him. A man with dark hair and bright blue eyes walks by past Ian while he’s distracted, so Ian almost misses him.  

“Ay, wait up!” the man shouts at somebody walking in front of him, and Ian’s head zips by so fast, he almost gets whiplash.

It’s Mickey.

It’s Mickey’s voice- the rough, throaty, deep voice that Ian’s been fantasizing about since he’d first heard it. He’d recognize that voice anywhere.

So, this is Mickey. Jet black hair, winter skin, and toned body. Ian can't help being impressed. He wishes Mickey was wearing less clothes- he can't even see Mickey’s arms under the long-sleeved button-up he’s wearing.

Then Ian’s gaze shifts down to Mickey’s ass.

_Oh. Fuck._

Ian licks his lips subconsciously, his eyes transfixed on Mickey’s beautiful ass, unfortunately covered up, and the way it clenches a little every time he takes a step. Ian’s never been this thankful for the existence of skinny jeans before. 

Ian watches as the woman walking in front of Mickey turns around and sticks her tongue out at him. She has the same raven hair as him, the same pale skin. For a second, Ian thinks she’s Mickey’s girlfriend. The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, until he realizes that they look too at ease, too comfortable, to be anything but brother and sister. He watches as Mickey hooks one arm around the woman’s back, and pulls her in close to him, grabbing her in a headlock when she’s close enough. She shrieks out, swatting at his arm until he releases her, laughing.

Ian smiles at the sight of both of them together. He could get used to that.

They’re already too far away when Ian remembers that he’s supposed to be following a plan to get Mickey into his bed as soon as possible.

Oh well. It was a long shot anyway.

Ian’s surprisingly not as dejected as he thinks he should be. He can't help but feel that the morning wasn’t a complete waste.

He doesn’t know exactly what he’s gained by looking at Mickey and his sister together. But there’s a warm feeling in his chest and a smile on his lips as he goes back to his room, humming softly under his breath.

And since he has an hour to kill either way, he decides there’s no better way to use up the time than by imagining Mickey’s glorious ass in all its unmasked perfection, spread out under Ian’s tongue, writhing with need.

-x-

That night, it takes Mickey five attempts to get the key in through the door. And then when he does manage to get the door open, he nearly trips and falls down flat on his face, thanks to the object lying in the middle of the fucking floor.

Second time in one week. Mickey hopes it isn't becoming a habit.

Mickey picks the object up and holds it close to his eyes, trying to make out the picture on the CD case. With a start, he realizes the number written on the album is 1989. Taylor fucking Swift’s 1989.

 _Fuck_ , Mickey breathes out. He has no fucking idea how Ian could possibly find out.

“Gallagher?!” Mickey calls out, slurring the words a bit.

“Mickey?” Ian asks innocently.

“Why the fuck would you-” Mickey’s words are cut off by a hiccup. Mickey has the sudden urge to giggle at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation.

“Why the fuck would you give me this album?” Mickey ploughs on, trying to suppress his laughter.

“Cause it’s good,” Ian says simply, apparently not realizing the significance.

Mickey exhales slowly in relief. So Ian doesn’t know after all.

“Are you going to listen to it?” Ian asks, trying not to sound as eager as he felt. Mickey pretends he doesn’t notice.

“Yes,” Mickey answers suddenly, the word followed by another hiccup. His only excuse for his fucking moronic decision is that he’s drunk as fuck. And a little bit high.

And he has no idea why, but he really likes Taylor Swift’s songs.

(Shut up. Shut the fuck up.)

 “Really?” Ian asks. Mickey can hear the surprise in his voice loud and clear. Unfortunately, Mickey can also hear the happiness in his voice.

Mickey doesn’t answer, only opens the CD case and removes the CD from inside. It takes him three attempts to get it into his music system.

The CD automatically skips to the second song, because Mickey’s music system isn’t exactly state of the art, and familiar music fills up Mickey’s room, spilling out into Ian’s apartment.

_Nice to meet you, where you been? I could show you incredible things._

Ian starts humming along to the song, and Mickey has to bite his tongue to keep himself from joining him.

 _Magic, madness, heaven, sin. Saw you there and I thought, oh my god_ , _look at that face, you look like my next mistake._

Ian sings out the first few words loudly, and mumbles out the rest, apparently out of his depth. Mickey can sympathize- he’d never admit to it, but he had to look up the lyrics on the internet thrice before he finally started getting them right.

_Love’s a game, wanna play._

Ian’s voice breaks a little at the last word, and a giggle escapes Mickey’s throat of its own volition.

The song suddenly skips forward again, moving to the first chorus.

_So it’s gonna be forever, or it’s gonna go down in flames._

Ian sings out the words at the top of his lungs, finally something he knows.

Mickey shakes his head at him.

_You can tell me when it’s over, if the high was worth the pain._

_Got a long list of ex lovers, they’ll tell you I'm insane._

Mickey’s lips twitch as he starts humming the tune under his breath.

_Cause you know I love the players, and you love the game!_

Ian practically shouts out the words.

_Cause we’re young and we’re reckless._

_Fuck it_ , Mickey thinks.

_We’ll take this way too far._

Mickey joins in midway, his voice merging with Ian’s as both of them stumble through the high notes and shout out the last few words.

Ian squeals, honest to goodness _squeals_ , when he realizes that Mickey’s singing Blank Space with him, but to his credit, he continues singing undeterred. He doesn’t want to scare Mickey off at this point, after all.

Ian coughs a little, trying hard to hold his laughter in. He can't believe it. Mickey fucking Milkovich, a fucking Taylor Swift fan.

_It’ll leave you breathless._

Both of them sound like dying whales now, Ian’s breaths loud and rough each time there’s a gap between the words, and Mickey breaking out into hiccups at the end of each line. They're surprisingly in sync, hitting the high notes at the wrong time every time, but hitting them together, so it sounds like a weird mash up of the song, their loud voices drowning out Taylor Swift's. 

They're bad. Their singing is terrible. But together, their singing is a little less unbearable, their voices complementing each other, completely in sync. 

If they were slightly better singers, it would be beautiful.

_Or with a nasty scar._

Ian doesn't even really know the lyrics- he's just winging it, going along with the flow, and letting Mickey fill in the words he doesn't know.

_But I’ve got a blank space, baby._

Ian can't help it- he loses it in the middle, erupting into giggles as Mickey continues singing, hiccups, breathlessness and raspy voice et all. 

_And I'll write your name._

Mickey finishes the chorus all by himself, ignoring the high pitched giggles emanating from Ian’s room. Mickey reaches out and switches off the music system, plunging them into silence, broken only by Ian's spasms of laughter.

Mickey tries to hold his own laughter in, he really does, but he erupts into a fit of giggles anyway.

“I didn’t know you could sing,” Ian chokes out from in between peals of laughter.

“I’m very talented,” Mickey slurs out, his lips slipping around the words, his stomach hurting from the laughter.

“I didn’t know you liked Taylor Swift,” Ian says, giggling again.

“Shut up,” Mickey says, trying to growl at Ian. He fails epically, devolving into another fit of laughter instead.

“I’d never have believed it, you know,” Ian says, still laughing. “Mickey fucking Milkovich.”

“Are you going to get over it any time soon?” Mickey asks. He’s never seen the funny side to his obsession with Taylor Swift’s songs before, but he’s starting to see it now.

“Maybe in a hundred years or so,” Ian says.

“You’re an asshole, you know,” Mickey says.

“Right back at you,” Ian says, his laughter slowly fading away.

Mickey smiles in the silence that follows, broken in the middle by solitary estranged giggles, and rubs his nose.

Mickey will never know exactly what had possessed him that day. Well, there were the cans of beer he’d shot gunned with Mandy, and the joint he’d had a few hits of, but none of that explained what he did next.

“You want to come over?” Mickey asks Ian, his voice too loud even to his own ears.

“What?” Ian asks, his eyes going wide.

“Wait, really?” Ian presses when Mickey doesn’t reply.

“Whatever, man, it was just-” Mickey rubs his temple in frustration. He’s already regretting his offer.

“No, no, I'm coming!” Ian protests. Like fuck he’s going to let this opportunity slide.

Mickey nervously picks at his clothes as he waits for Ian to show up. Finally, there’s a hesitant knock at the door, after what seems like an eternity. Mickey reaches out and pulls it open.

 _Oh, shit_ , Mickey thinks. His vision’s slightly blurry around the edges, and he can't really see too well, but whatever he can see is enough. Because there, standing in front of him, wearing a smile on his lips and eyes as wide as saucers, is the hottest guy Mickey’s ever seen. 

Ian's only wearing a t-shirt and shorts, and Mickey can see the muscles on his arms rippling as he takes a step forward and shuts the door behind him. Ian's smile widens when he sees Mickey ogling at him.

"Hi," he whispers, taking in the sight of Mickey standing there in front of him finally.

For everything Mickey’s ass and voice make Ian want to do, Ian’s slowly realizing that this is so much better. Ian wants all of Mickey- his touches, his kisses, his ass, his words. All of him.

“Hi,” Mickey whispers back, leaning in towards Ian a bit. Ian’s hair flops forward into his eyes, and Mickey automatically reaches out a hand to brush it off his face, his fingers brushing past Ian’s cheek softly.

And just like that, they’re falling together, Ian pulling Mickey towards himself, wrapping one hand around his neck and fusing their lips together in one motion. Ian’s lips are soft and plump, and swiping his tongue against Ian’s bottom lip, Mickey realizes they’re salty. It’s a taste he could get used to.

Mickey pushes back against Ian, breathless but desperate, pulling him backwards to his room, not breaking contact. Mickey would never have known it, but all this time, he’s been drowning. And kissing Ian is like coming up for air.

Ian pushes one icy hand down Mickey’s jeans, kneading his ass with his fingers, and Mickey moans into Ian’s mouth, his tongue needy and writhing against Ian’s.

Mickey pulls Ian into his bedroom, miscalculating the distance between the bed and the door so they both fall in a heap on the bed. Ian giggles, the sound covering Mickey’s breathless moans as Ian’s fingers continue their work on Mickey’s ass. Suddenly, Ian pulls his hand out, choosing instead to zip down Mickey’s pants. Mickey pushes at Ian’s shirt, trying to get it off without breaking contact with Ian’s lips, and Ian pulls away, laughing.

He takes off his shirt, and then helps Mickey out of his when he sees Mickey struggling to untangle himself. Mickey pushes Ian back against the bed, touching his forehead to Ian’s as he quickly pulls Ian’s shorts off his legs and throws them on the floor.

Ian smiles and rolls over, pinning Mickey under him. He presses kisses to his ears and along his jaw line, and down his neck, finally coming to a stop against Mickey’s bobbing Adam’s apple.

“I love your voice,” Ian says against Mickey’s skin. Mickey grips Ian’s hair with one hand and his ass with the other. “Yeah?” he asks, his voice slightly strangled.

“Yeah,” Ian answers. “And your ass,” he says, drawing circles around Mickey’s butt cheeks with one finger teasingly.

“And your eyes,” he says, his eyes just inches away from Mickey’s, the green shining slightly in the dark. Mickey has to focus hard to keep from getting cross-eyed.

“They’re so blue,” Ian says. Mickey snorts. Way to state the fucking obvious.

Mickey’s getting a little short of breath, but that has nothing to do with Ian’s words. Nothing at all.

Ian just smiles into Mickey’s neck, inhaling deeply. He stays like that for a charged moment.

“You going to get a move on anytime soon?” Mickey asks impatiently. He never could handle charged moments.

“Where do you keep the lube?” Ian asks, smiling at Mickey. Mickey points towards his dresser.

Ian clambers off him, cutting off Mickey’s whine of protest with a short kiss, and then stoops down on the floor, looking for the bottle of lube in the dresser. He rummages around as Mickey listens impatiently, his head propped up against a pillow. It’s soft and comfortable, and Mickey can feel himself relaxing.

Ian finds three pairs of dirty socks, one tube of toothpaste, and five empty refills, but not a single bottle of lube. He pushes his hand into the recesses of the drawer, feeling the surface of the wood for any corner he’s forgotten, when his hand hits a hollow spot. Confused, Ian pushes at the spot, and suddenly the wood gives way, revealing four cases of glass shining underneath, along with a bottle of lube.

Ian picks up the first case and holds it up to his face, trying to figure out what it is. Feeling the case with his hands, he can tell that it’s a CD cover. He has to strain his eyes to make out the picture on the front-Taylor Swift, with her curly hair blowing in all directions.

Ian doesn’t have to read the letters to know they spell out ‘ _Fearless_ ’.

He smiles wide, shaking his head.

“So how obsessed with Taylor Swift are you, exactly?” he asks Mickey, climbing back into bed with him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> By the way, you really should check out All Time Low's Runaways. And since we're on the topic, also listen to Tokyo Police Club's songs, even though I haven't mentioned them in this fic.
> 
> Also, I'm running out of original ways to beg for kudos and comments, so... please leave kudos and/or comments? :)
> 
> PS I'm on tumblr @ fiandvee.tumblr.com


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